cerning
people will say, "How fickle these girls are!"

Not at all. They obey a subtle, spiritual law, which makes it impossible
for friendship long to exist on insufficient food, and when it is said
that women are unreasoning and exacting in their friendships, it is
simply because people don't see that it is the nature which is in them
crying out to be fed with that without which it must die.

But if after, it may be, years of affectionate intercourse, you still
find that your friend gives you absolutely nothing which you have not
already got--that she communicates no thought or experience to you that
will stimulate your mind or aid you in the practical work of life--do
you not begin to lose interest in her, strive as you will against the
consciousness of it? Does not the friend quit her hold on you and slide
down to the level of those of whom an hour or a letter every few weeks
gives you enough? You may feel affectionately towards such, but not
friendship.

Our ideal friends, Alice and Maud, are very different. Alice is studious
and thoughtful, leading a quiet, uneventful life; Maud is high-spirited,
devoted to art and music, and sees considerably more of "the world," as
it is called. But they are a constant source of interest and assistance
to each other. Alice's thoughtful mind finds the meaning to the puzzles
of Maud's more superficial existence, who in turn puts the light touches
to Alice's grave conclusions, which often give them reality. These two,
as it were, sketch life's island from different points. One takes the
outline of cliff or shore, dashing in what I may call the aggregated
tints of forest and hill; the other paints by turns each special crag or
ravine, with their colours in detail; yet both are correct, and we want
both if we are to understand the island.

I can imagine Maud in difficulty thinking, "I must go and see Alice, she
will help me out of my perplexity; she takes such different views of
things from those I do, and I have really come to an end of my ideas."

Or Alice, also in difficulty, though probably of a very different
character, exclaiming, "I only wish Maud were here. She would know just
how to arrange this; and I cannot imagine what to do."

Emerson tells us that as soon as we come up with a man's (or woman's)
limitations it is all over with us. Before that he might have been
infinitely alluring and attractive--"a great hope--a sea to swim in";
but you discover that he has a shor